(ink* 

AN 

COMMEMORATIVE OF THE LATE 

REV. JOHN HOLT RICE, D.D. 

SPOKEN BEFORE 

THE LITERARY AND PHILOSOPHICAL SOCIETY 

OF 

HAMPDEN SYDNEY COLLEGE, 



AT THEIR ANNIVERSARY MEETING, ON THURSDAY the 27th of SEPTEMBER, 

a. d. 1832. 



By WILLIAM MAXWELL. 



Published by Request. 



RICHMOND: 
ROBERT I. SMITH. 

1832. 



#5 Ma 



Printed by J. Macfarlan. 



ORATION, 



Mr President and Gentlemen : 

To commemorate those who have benefited society by 
their virtues and talents, is a dictate of duty as well as an 
impulse of sentiment. We owe it to them perhaps, to gra- 
tify that love of honorable fame which animated their breasts 
whilst they lived, and which, we may not unreasonably ima- 
gine, has followed them into a better world. We owe it to 
ourselves, to show that we have not been insensible to their 
merits, nor ungrateful for their benefactions. And we owe 
it to those who are to come after us, to transmit their names 
adorned with our praises to the latest posterity. 

It is in this spirit, I may presume, that our Society have 
delegated me to proclaim in this audience our just and ad- 
miring sense of the exalted worth, and invaluable services, 
of our departed President. And it is in this spirit that I 
shall endeavor to discharge the duty assigned me; although 
I cannot but feel beforehand a painful consciousness that I 
shall not be able to do any thing like justice to my subject, 
and that, at the best, I shall only serve, like a broken mirror, 
to reflect some scattered traits of that image which altogether 
was so admirable, and so divine. In plain words, I shall not 
even attempt to give you a full delineation of the life, char- 
acter, and services of our lost friend; but only a slight sketch 
of some points in them, which seem to be, more particularly, 
proper for our notice on the present occasion. 



4 



John Holt Rice, the second son of Benjamin and Cath- 
erine Rice, was born near the small town of New London, 
in the county of Bedford, on the 28th of November, A.D. 
1777. From the first dawn of his intellect, he discovered 
an uncommon capacity for learning, and a still more uncom- 
mon disposition to piety. We have even some reason to 
believe, that like Samuel, he was called in the very morning 
of his life; at so early an hour indeed that he could not distin- 
guish the voice of God from that of his own mother — so soft 
and so tender was its tone. It was, in truth, the first care 
of this excellent woman to train up her infant child in the 
nurture and admonition of the Lord; and you might have 
seen the weak and sickly boy always at her knee, reading 
his Bible, or Watts's Psalms, to her listening ear, and catch- 
ing the first lessons of religion from her gentle tongue. No 
wonder that he ever retained a most grateful sense of her 
special service in this respect, and warmly cherished her 
sacred memory in his fillial heart. 

As a further evidence of his early piety, we are told that 
whilst he was yet a boy, and hardly more than seven or eight 
years old, he established a little private prayer-meeting with 
his brothers and sisters, and led the exercises of it himself 
with great apparent devotion. We are not informed, however, 
at what time exactly he made a public profession of religion; 
but we understand that it was probably when he was about 
fifteen or sixteen years of age. 

Shortly afterwards, we find him a student of Washington 
College, to which his father, who was justly proud of his 
talents, had strained his slender resources to send him. We 
must admit, however, that he did not distinguish himself as a 
scholar whilst he was here; for the "improba Siren Desidia" 
(as Horace calls her,) "the wicked Siren Sloth," had charm- 
ed his too indolent disposition to abandon the rugged heights 
of Science for the more smooth and flowery vale of Polite 
Letters, jn which he loved to ramble and repose. At the 



5 



same time, his character in other respects was free from all 
vicious irregularities; and the enchantress who had decoyed 
him from the path of duty could not lead him, with all her 
fascinations, into drinking, gaming, or any other vice which 
would have stained the honor of his youth, and furnished 
him with reasons of regret and self-reproach in all his fol- 
lowing life. Here, then, he read and dreamed away about 
twelve months of his time, when the straitened circumstances 
of his father compelled him to leave the college, and accept 
the generous invitation of the master of the New London 
academy to come and continue his studies freely with him. 
It is, indeed, an interesting fact in his history, that the gen- 
tleman who was afterwards to become his successor in the 
noble institution which he was to found, should have been 
chosen by Divine Providence to step forward at this juncture, 
and reach forth a helping hand to our embarrassed youth. — 
With this friend he remained about a twelvemonth longer, 
turning over the pages of Swift, and Addison, and other 
standard writers of the age, and practising his pen which was 
by and by to become a wand in his hand. 

But whilst he was improving and enjoying himself in this 
way, he received a pressing application from Mr Nelson, of 
Malvern Hills, (a country seat on the bank of the James, a 
few miles below Richmond,) to take charge of a small family 
school in his house; and, laudably anxious to relieve his fa- 
ther as soon as possible from the burden of his support, and 
to maintain himself by his own exertions, he resolved to un- 
dertake the arduous duty at once. It was on this occasion, 
we are told, as he was preparing to set out on his journey, 
that his father introduced him to that "old man eloquent," 
Patrick Henry, in the court-yard; when the orator informed 
of his purpose, and applauding his resolution, warmly encour- 
aged him in his undertaking, and said to him, in his pointed 
manner, "Remember, my son, the best men always make them- 
selves" — to which our youth doubtless added, in his own 







mind, the important and necessary words, "with the grace of 
God to help them" — a sentence which, so amended, he was 
now going to prove and illustrate by his own example. 

At Malvern Hills, our young teacher continued to re- 
side for about a year, giving great satisfaction to his host by 
his attention to his duty, and endearing himself to all the 
family by his amiable deportment. At the end of this time, 
however, he set out to visit his father and friends in Bed- 
ford; and, ascending the river in an open boat, and exposing 
himself to the sun by the way, he contracted a dangerous 
sickness, and reached home only to be seized with a violent 
fever which confined him to his bed for several months. 
On recovering at length from this attack, he happened to 
see, by an advertisement in a newspaper, that the trustees 
of our college here were in want of a tutor, and resolving 
to offer himself for the place, came down at once, on 
foot, to this spot. 

There are some perhaps in this assembly who may be 
recalling his first appearance on this stage, which was after- 
wards to become the scene of his glory; and we must ac- 
knowledge certainly that it was by no means a very brilliant 
debut He was, as we have said, just recovered from a 
sickness, which had left him pale and wan; he was poor, in 
fact pennyless; and his only coat was worn thread-bare upon 
his back — nothing could have been more unpromising than 
such a figure. But the diamond was yet unwrought, and 
only required a little polishing to show that it was indeed 
"a gem" of the "purest ray," and of the first water; and, 
happily for him, he soon found friends who could discern 
his merit beneath its disguise. There was one, especially, 
an old soldier of the revolution, yet living in this neighbor- 
hood, who came forward instinctively to the rescue of our 
adventurous youth, (who seemed indeed to be upon a for- 
lorn hope,) promptly and delicately relieved his wants, and 
introduced him to his own hospitable house where Piety and 



7 



Virtue were always welcome, and where he found a second 
mother, and, in due time, a second self. But I must not 
anticipate the order of events. 

The state of our college at this time, was dark and dis- 
couraging. The bright season which she had enjoyed under 
her Smiths, (the Castor and Pollux, lucida sidera, of the 
institution,) had passed away ; and the Genius of Hampden 
Sydney was mourning in her deserted halls. After, there- 
fore, discharging the duties of his office for rather more 
than two years, with acknowledged ability and fidelity, our 
young tutor yielded to the earnest solicitations of his friend 
Major Morton, and opened a small school for young ladies 
at Willington. This he taught with equal credit to himself 
and advantage to his pupils, (some of whom are yet living 
to honor his memory by the beauty of their lives,) for about 
twelve months ; at the end of which time, having resolved 
to adopt the profession of physic, he availed himself of the 
kind invitation of his friends, Mr and Mrs Smith, of Mon- 
trose, in Powhatan, and repaired to their house to pursue 
his studies under the direction of a distinguished practitioner 
of that county. In the following fall, however, just as he 
was preparing to set off for Philadelphia, to attend the Medi- 
cal Lectures there, he received a pressing invitation from 
the Trustees of the College to return and resume his station 
in it, which, after some hesitation, and drawn perhaps uncon- 
sciously by a secret influence, he concluded to accept. 

In the mean time, (or rather a little before he left it,) Mr 
Alexander, now Dr Alexander, of Princeton, had been ap- 
pointed President, and Mr Speece, now Dr Speece, of 
Augusta, was still a tutor, and, under their auspices, the 
institution was now rising into something like its former state. 
With these congenial spirits our youth immediately and eager- 
ly renewed his previous acquaintance, and soon formed a 
strict and inviolable friendship, which was long the pride and 
joy of his life, and which, I am persuaded, Death himself 



8 



has not been able to destroy. The happy influence which 
two such men, and especially the first of them who was his 
senior by several years, and already a distinguished ornament 
of the christian ministry, were exerting over him, became 
apparent when it was known that he had abandoned the pro- 
fession of medicine, and was pursuing his studies with a 
view to that of the ministry of the gospel. This was, cer- 
tainly, a happy change of purpose, and one which proved 
eventually of great consequence to the church, and to our 
whole state. Had he become a practising physician, indeed, 
we cannot doubt that his discriminating power of mind, and 
his science and skill, improved and adorned as they would 
have been by his piety and humanity, would have made him 
an honor to a highly honorable profession; but his usefulness 
and his influence would have been comparatively small and 
circumscribed. He was undoubtedly called by him who 
made him to move in a more elevated sphere, in which he 
might be a light to thousands; he was called to be a physi- 
cian of souls; and surely no one whom we have ever known 
was more eminently qualified to "minister to a mind dis- 
eased," and pour the sweet balm of Gilead into the bleed- 
ing breast which sin had wounded, and which only God by 
his blessed ministry could cure. Having put himself, ac- 
cordingly, under the care of the Presbytery of Hanover, 
and pursued his sacred studies for some time, and having 
married the woman whom God gave him, he was licensed 
to preach the gospel on the 12th of September, A.D. 1803, 
and, not long afterwards, having accepted a call from the 
Congregation of Cub Creek, in the County of Charlotte, 
he was ordained their pastor on the 29th of September, in 
the following year. 

He continued to reside in Charlotte, laboring much in the 
gospel, for about eight years, during which time the master 
whom he served wrought with him, and gave him some pre- 
cious seals of his ministry, and many cheering proofs of his 



9 



acceptance. He was, indeed, a true shepherd; a guide and 
a guard to all the members of his flock. After the lapse of 
twenty years, there are probably not many of them living ; 
but there are some perhaps in this house, and more in heaven, 
who will testify — who have testified — how zealous and how 
diligent he was — how instructive in his preaching — how wise 
in his deportment — how gentle, how affectionate — how kind 
and attentive to the poor slaves — how anxious to give them 
a true knowledge of the scriptures, and to preserve them 
from that wild and reckless fanaticisui which he saw them 
so prone to mistake for religion, and which he knew could 
only lead them into misconduct, and perhaps transport them 
into excesses that might be dangerous to their masters, and 
must be fatal to themselves — in a word, how truly he follow- 
ed Christ, and how fully he was, in all things, their pastor 
and their friend. During all this time, too, as his salary was 
small, and insufficient for the support of his family, he taught 
a classical school for young gentlemen who were preparing 
for college, and whose minds he was careful to imbue, not 
only with the beauties of those Greek and Roman authors 
which he loved, but much more with the principles of that 
holy book which he valued above all price, and one single 
sentence of which, he thought with Augustine, was worth all 
the classics. He was thus extensively and most honorably 
useful in his station; and undoubtedly he was warmly at- 
tached to the people of his charge. Still he could not help 
feeling at times, what others thought, that he was not exactly 
in his proper place; but that he ought to have a larger field 
for his active spirit to work in — and the time for him to find 
it was now come. 

In the year 1811, some gentlemen in Richmond, moved 
by Divine Providence, resolved to establish a Presbyterian 
church in that, city, and turned their eyes to the Pastor of 
Charlotte as a proper person to aid them in their design. — 
The application was flattering, and the object inviting. The 
2 



10 



state of religion in our capital at that time, was deplorably- 
low. In the Methodist, and Baptist churches, indeed, the 
flame of true piety was still burning on her altar — and 
vivid]) r enough — for it was mixed undoubtedly with "strange 
fire" which often filled the friends of "truth and soberness" 
with alarm for its ravages. The members of these churches, 
however, were chiefly in the humbler walks of life; and, 
in the higher classes of society, embracing Episcopalians 
and Presbyterians mingled together, it seemed to have be- 
come almost extinct. Infidelity, risen from the abyss of 
the French Revolution, had sowed her tares far and wide, 
and they were still tainting all the atmosphere with poison 
and death. The world, too, with her fashions and vanities, 
had crept into the very sanctuary, and coiled her rings about 
the sacred pulpit itself. The lights in the candlestick, (if it 
was not a mockery to call them so,) burned with a dim and 
doubtful hue, and seemed almost ready to expire in the 
drowsy air around them. In a word, the church was but the 
shadow, or rather the phantom of herself — she had a name 
to live and tvas dead, i 

In this state of things, the friends of Zion could not but 
weep over her desolations; and we can easily imagine with 
what emotions the Pastor of Charlotte must have have stood 
on that capitoline hill, (like Paul at Athens,) and how hit 
spirit must have been stirred within him when he saw the 
city wholly given to idolatry — not indeed exactly to the 
worship of statues; for there was but one of those works of 
art in our Athens, and that, the noble form of our christian 
Washington, would have frowned upon them if they had 
dared to insult him with that homage which they had ra- 
vished from their Creator — but to the service of Sin, and 
Mammon, in all their countless forms. Doubtless such a 
man was wanted for the place. Still he could not immedi- 
ately bring himself to feel that he was fitted for it. The 
more, indeed, that he saw the importance of the station, the 



\ 



1 [ 



more he doubted his ability to occupy it with advantage.—- 
Ambition of a worldly sort could not sway his mind; and, 
with that modesty which is usually, if not always, the com- 
panion of merit, he shrunk back from the arduous service 
of the metropolis to the humble toils of his rural province: 
nor, indeed, with his affectionate heart, could he easily per- 
suade himself to leave his "first love" (as he fondly called 
it,) for any other, though she might have a richer dowery, or 
even fairer charms. After some reflection, therefore, and 
much anxiety as to the part of duty, he positively declined 
the invitation, and put the subject aw T ay from him, as he 
thought, forever. But the will of God was otherwise. — 
The invitation was renewed, and urged upon him with 
greater importunity. His heart was moved; and whilst he 
was yet hesitating what to do, an event happened which 
seemed to point out his path, and "marshal him his way," 5 
as by a flash of light from heaven. I allude here to that 
awful and appalling dispensation, the destruction of the 
theatre in Richmond by fire, on the night of the 26th of 
December, 1811. I shall not attempt to paint the scene. — ■ 
You remember the sensation which it excited, and the throb, 
the electric shock of grief bordering upon agony, which it 
sent through all hearts over our whole Commonwealth, as if 
they were but one. It was truly a calamity unparalleled 
in the history of our state; and it was no wonder that Piety 
exclaimed, and even Infidelity, surprised out of herself by 
the suddenness of the stroke, and all aghast, acknowledged, 
"it is the hand of God." Our Pastor felt that it was so; 
and no longer dared to disobey the summons which seemed 
to come to him from heaven itself. Accordingly, at the en- 
suing session of the Presbytery, he accepted the call which 
was presented to him through that body, and, bidding fare- 
well to the people of Charlotte, whose tears flowed to lose 
him, hastened at once to his new charge. 

His arrival in Richmond was an era in the history of the 



12 



church in our state. His first sermon there was from the 
sentence of the great Apostle: And I am sure that when 1 
come unto you, I shall come in the fulness of the blessing 
of the gospel of Christ — and it was prophetic. He raised 
the standard of evangelical Religion at once in the city, and 
many of her true friends, faithful men and ^honorable 
women," promptly and loyally rallied around him. He 
preached the gospel earnestly and strenuously sabbath after 
sabbath, and day after day, in the Capitol, in the Mason's 
Hall, in the church near Rocketts, and afterwards in the 
church which was raised as a monument upon the ashes of 
the dead. He was instant in season, out of season, at all 
times, and every where. He gave himself wholly to his 
work; and the Lord was with him, and cheered his heart 
with signs following which could not be mistaken. Happy 
seasons of refreshing and revival followed, and blest his 
toils. At length he was enabled to build a new and conve- 
nient house of worship, in a more central situation, and to 
organize a regular congregation in it; and so he became 
the First Pastor of the First Presbyterian church in Rich- 
mond, which flourished greatly under his ministry. 

Nor was he satisfied to confine his labors to his own fold. 
He visited other churches and places, and blest them with 
his presence. He visited Petersburg, and had the happiness 
to see his beloved brother established there as pastor of the 
new church erected in that town. He visited Norfolk — and 
I saw, and can testify, that hundreds of her citizens rejoiced 
in his visit; and some of them, most assuredly, shall rejoice 
from it throughout all eternity. He visited other places 
also, with like gracious effect. He attended the meetings 
of the Presbytery, and of the Synod, and his weight was 
felt in all their councils. In a word, he felt that his field 
was all Virginia; and he labored in it with a zeal, a fidelity, 
and a success, which had hardly ever been seen before, and 
which, I greatly fear, will not soon, if ever, be seen again. 



1.3 



Nor was he yet satisfied with all these labors, numerous 
and arduous as they were; but, aware of the power of the 
press — that novum organum of public opinion in modern 
times — he resolved to wrest it, if possible, from the enemy, 
and wield it for the benefit of the public. He established, 
accordingly, the Christian Monitor, and afterwards the Vir- 
ginia Evangelical and Literary Magazine, in which he strove 
to bring Religion and Literature to unite, and act together 
in friendly concert for the promotion of their common in- 
terests. To further this object, he endeavored to gather 
around him all whom he could win over to aid him in his 
work; and had the happiness to enlist several coadjutors, 
both clerical and lay, who were worthy to be associated with 
him in such an undertaking. Still he was himself the co- 
rypheus of the band; the captain of the company. He 
multiplied himself in the field, and was indeed often himself 
his host. Yet, in the midst of all these labors, he found 
time to publish several pamphlets in vindication of the gov- 
ernment and order of the Presbyterian Church; and to edit 
a re-print of the History of Virginia^ together with the True 
Travels and Adventures of Captain John Smith, the noble 
and gallant father of .our state. 

In the meantime, his reputation had gone abroad,, and 
enabled him to extend his usefulness to other parts of our 
country. In the year 1819, having been appointed by the 
Presbytery a delegated the General Assembly of the Pres- 
byterian Church, sitting in Philadelphia, he was elected 
Moderator of the body, and discharged the arduous and 
delicate duties of the office so rnuch to the satisfaction of all 
parties, that he became, in effect, "consul non unius anni" a 
sort of standing Moderator, for the rest of his life. In the 
year 1822, also, wishing to visit New England, chiefly with 
a view to make arrangements for a more regular supply of 
missionaries for our southern field, he attended the Gene- 
ral Assembly again, and afterwards, as their delegate, the 



14 



Associations of Connecticut and Massachusetts. In this way, 
he became more extensively and familiarly acquainted with 
the, enlightened clergy of New England, and learned to 
honor their piety and talents, (but without adopting the pe- 
culiar notions of some of them,) whilst they, on their part, 
learned to appreciate the value of his large mind and liberal 
spirit, and to regard him with lasting veneration and esteem. 

In the fall of this year, also, he received a flattering at- 
testation to his merit from the college of Nassau Hall, in 
New Jersey. In 1819, he had received from its Board the 
title of Doctor of Divinity — an honor which would be more 
honorable if it were always as properly bestowed. But 
now in this year, 1822, he received from the same authority 
a still more distinguished and unequivocal mark of its ap- 
probation, in its unanimous election of him to the Presidency 
of the institution itself. This appointment, indeed, we can 
easily see, must have been every way highly gratifying to 
his feelings, and certainly involved some strong temptations 
for his ambition — if that passion had been lurking in his 
breast. He thought, no doubt, immediately, of Davies — 
that splendid luminary of our church, who after pouring his 
fervid beams over the fields of Virginia, had gone to shed 
the last rays of his descending glory over the classic shades 
of Princeton. He thought, too, of another light — still more 
entirely ours — which had risen upon his youthful eye in this 
very sphere, and was now scattering its mild and mellow 
lustre near the same place — and he may, and must, have 
felt the natural wish to finish his own radiant course in the 
same quarter; where undoubtedly he would have added 
new brilliancy to that "happy constellation" which, so fortu- 
nately for our Church and for our country, is still shedding 
its "selectest influence" over that favored spot. But for- 
tunately for our state, the distressing sickness under which 
he was then laboring forbade him to accept an appointment 
which had otherwise so many attractions for his fancy; and, 



15 



as he said, "even if he had been well, his Virginia heart 
lold him that that was not the place for him." No — he felt 
that he was born for her — for her chiefly, though not exclu- 
sively—and his language was: "If I forget thee, O Vir- 
ginia, let my right hand forget her cunning: and let my 
tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth:" Yea, "Because of 
the house of the Lord our God that is in thee, I will seek 
thy good." With this sentiment, he declined the appoint- 
ment, which was warmly pressed upon him, and resolved 
to remain with his beloved people in Richmond. So at 
least he thought, and felt at the time; but his Master had 
another work for him, in another field — and it was now ready 
for his hand. 

In the year 1820, the venerable Doctor Hoge, who was 
Professor of the Theological Seminary then under the care 
of the Synod of Virginia, departed this life, (or, as it runs 
on his monumental tablet, "went from the General Assembly 
of the Presbyterian church, in Philadelphia, to the General 
Assembly and church of the first-born in heaven;") and the 
institution which he had long fostered with paternal care, 
seemed about to expire with him. It is certain at least, that 
some of the members of the Synod at this time doubted the 
expediency of continuing its existence, and were rather dis- 
posed to transfer its funds to the new Theological Seminary 
then recently established at Princeton, and which promised, 
in their view, to serve as a bond of union and unity to the 
whole Presbyterian Church in the United States. Our 
friend, however, warmly attached as he was to that noble insti- 
tution, saw clearly that this hope was fallacious, and could 
not be realized; and that public opinion, and the exigences of 
the times, rather called for several seminaries in different 
parts of our land. He was, therefore, anxious by all means 
to retain our small school in our own state, and to raise and 
enlarge it into a seminary for the Southern division of our 
Union. He had, indeed, been actively engaged in forming 



10 



this school in its very beginning, and had been all along its 
most zealous and efficient supporter; and could not now bear 
the idea of having it destroyed, or, what was much the same 
thing, absorbed in another. He exerted himself, accord- 
ingly, to the utmost, to impress his views on the minds of the 
brethren, and happily with some effect. By his counsel, the 
seminary was put back from the care of the Synod to that 
of the Presbytery of Hanover, in whose bounds it had risen, 
and whose members, he knew, would naturally feel the most 
cordial and lively interest in supporting it. Still it did not 
immediately revive, but continued to languish for some time, 
without giving any certain signs of life. At length, however, 
in the fall of 1822, the Presbytery determined to appoint a 
new Professor, and after solemnly invoking the direction of 
Almighty God in the choice which they were about to make, 
unanimously elected the proper person to the office. 

The call upon him to execute his own plan, was thus appa- 
rently clear; yet he doubted again whether it was his duty 
to accept it. He saw, indeed, and felt, that the station to 
which he was now summoned was one of transcendent im- 
portance to all the interests which he loved; but, in his state 
of health, could he venture to assume its arduous and respon- 
sible duties? And was it right to abandon the field before 
him where there was still an ample harvest to be gathered 
in? He consulted his friends — he consulted God — he ac- 
cepted the call. This was in June 1823. Immediately 
afterwards, he accepted an agency from the Board, and 
proceeded forthwith to New York, to solicit funds for the 
institution which he was now to raise, as it were, from the 
dead. He returned from this expedition in the following 
fall, and shortly afterwards repaired again to this scene of 
his future toils. 

Here he found that nothing had been done for him; but 
that all was to be done by his own hand. Undaunted, 
however, by this state of things, he only applied himself 



17 



With more energy to his work, and opened his new seminary, 
with only three students, in a small outhouse which the 
President of our College kindly lent him for the purpose — • 
so small was the source of that sacred stream which was to 
make glad the city of our God! In the ensuing summer, he 
began to build a house for his family and pupils, as it was 
providentially, and, 1 trust, significantly ordered, on a spot 
of ground already consecrated by prayer, and by the Spirit 
of Revival, fifty years before. In the following spring, the 
institution was fairly enshrined in its own tabernacle, on its 
own hill. 

This, however, was but the beginning of our Professor's 
toils; for he now saw clearly that it was necessary to enlarge 
the establishment to its full size at once, or that all his past 
labor would be lost. He resolved, therefore, to raise by 
subscription a sufficient sum of money, (the sum of $75,- 
000,) to finish the buildings on a proper scale, and to estab- 
lish three professorships, with permanent funds for their sup- 
port. The design was large, beyond all precedent in this 
quarter — so large indeed that some of his best friends could 
not help regarding it as altogether visionary and romantic. — 
But he determined to attempt, and, by the blessing of God, to 
achieve it; and fortunately, at this moment, he found in the 
late Robert Roy, a young missionary warm from Princeton, 
then laboring in the county of Nottoway, (but now in a higher 
region,) an agent admirably qualified to aid him in his enter- 
prise. With him, then, to help him, he made his first appeal 
to the good people of Charlotte, (his former flock,) with aus- 
picious success. The generous citizens of this county, of 
Prince Edward, followed the lead of their brothers and sis- 
ters of Charlotte, in the same liberal style. Those of Rich- 
mond, Petersburg, Norfolk, and some other places, followed 
them, with almost equal steps, and the undertaking seemed 
to be already flowering out with hope. With this subscrip- 
tion, then, (amounting, I believe, to about a third of the sum 
3 



18 



proposed to be raised,) he repaired to the city of New York 
— thence to Albany, and other places in the same state — af- 
terwards to Boston, and Philadelphia — spreading out his plans 
before the generous spirits of those quarters, and urging them 
by every motive which could fairly influence their minds, to 
unite with their brethren of the South, and finish his work 
by their aid. He visited them on this errand again — and 
again— and at length with a degree of success which almost 
equalled his warmest expectations. 

In performing this service, he had to encounter the most 
serious and discouraging difficulties. I am aware, indeed, 
that it has been a common opinion here, that it was all a 
smooth and easy business which he did — that he found a few 
warm and wealthy burghers in those cities, and got at once 
into their hoards, by a sort of open sesame — and all was done* 
Now, I happen to know that the fact was really far other- 
wise. The truth is, he earned all that he got by the sweat 
of his brow, and the sorrow of his heart. He found, indeed, 
some men of kindred spirit, and with money to give; but he 
found them calm and calculating in their charity, as in their 
business, and deeming it their duty to see that the money 
which they had to lay out for God should not be thrown 
away, but invested in some profitable stock, that should carry 
a lawful interest into the treasury of heaven; and it was obvi- 
ously no light task to satisfy them, with a thousand conflicting 
claims upon them at once, that this scheme whose success 
was doubted even by some of its aiders at home, would an- 
swer the sanguine anticipations of its appealing advocate — 
and I can say with truth, partly from my own personal obser- 
vation, and partly from authentic documents which I have 
seen, that, in my judgment, no other man— not even such 
another one — but just himself, could have carried his point; 
and that it required, in fact, all his prudence and persever- 
ance, and the whole weight and charm of his character into 
the bargain, to enable him to succeed as he did. 



He had difficulties, too, of the same, and some others of 
a different kind, to encounter at home. He had here to en- 
counter the spirit of jealousy disguised under the mask of 
doubt — the malice of enemies — and the more dangerous 
whispers of friends, (as they called themselves, and as I am 
willing to believe they were in heart,) of his sacred enter- 
prise; but who could no more comprehend the grandeur of 
his plan, than the little fly upon the pillar in St. Paul's could 
comprehend its size, or measure its circumference with his 
microscopic eye. On the other hand, however, I acknowl- 
edge freely, and with great pleasure, that he found other 
friends, like-minded with himself, both in the Board and out 
of it — and one especially whom I should be glad to name; 
but I must not wound the modesty which only gives him a 
new title to our honor — who zealously and cordially shared with 
!him in his labors on earth, and, I trust, shall in due time share 
with him in his reward in heaven. So he went on building; 
and strong in the spirit of Him who had raised him up for 
the service, overcame all obstacles, and all opposition, and 
.accomplished his object at last with victorious success. 

In the mean time, whilst he was doing all this, he was 
wisely providing for the government and support of his new 
institution, and by a series of combinations which 1 cannot 
stop to detail, he placed it at length under the immediate 
care of the Synods of Virginia and North Carolina, and the 
superintendence and guardianship of the General Assembly 
of the Presbyterian Church in the United States; and so 
established the Union Theological Seminary on a basis which, 
I trust, will sustain it forever. At the same time, also, he 
was drawing his pupils about him from all quarters of the 
country, and teaching, or rather enabling them to teach 
themselves, by his theological lectures, and otherwise, with 
great ability ; and feeling with the Roman, that nothing was 
done whilst any thing remained to be accomplished, he was 
still forming new schemes for the extension and enlargement 



20 



every way of the resources and influences of the institution, 
and flourishing in the honorable reputation which he had so 
justly acquired — when he was most unexpectedly called to 
leave this house which he had built, for a house not made 
with hands eternal in the heavens. 

In the fall of 1830, he visited New York again for the 
purpose of completing his collections, and, ascending the 
river in prosecution of his object, caught a violent cold which 
fastened itself upon his system, and menaced his life. On 
his return home, however, somewhat better, he instantly ap- 
plied himself to his duties with his usual diligence, and, for a 
while, the vigor of his mind seemed to baffle the progress of his 
disease. On the second sabbath in December, particularly, 
he ascended the pulpit in this house, and preached to the 
congregation here assembled, for the last time. Some of you 
remember that discourse. It was, you know, on the signs 
of the times ; and you remember how his words fell upon 
you with an ominous and mysterious impression which you 
could not then interpret. You remember how he set before 
you, as in a vision, the Church and the World arrayed in 
continual conflict against each other, and now about to close 
in a more deadly struggle for the empire of the earth, hang- 
ing in suspended scales over your heads ; and how he 
warned you, every man of you, to come out at once from 
the ranks of the enemy, and to stand forth visibly and in- 
trepidly on the Lord's side. Never before, you thought, 
had he spoken so wisely and so well. It was indeed cycnea 
vox — a swan-like strain, prophetic by its very sweetness of 
his coming death. Soon afterwards, his sickness increased 
upon him, and confined him first to his house — then to his 
room — then to his bed — till desire failed, and it became 
mournfully apparent that he was going to his long home. In 
vain were those prayers offered up for him in our Seminary, 
in the Seminary at Princeton, in his church at Richmond, 
and in other places. Still he languished — and failed — until 



21 



the morning of the 3d of September, 1831, when, as the 
day dawned, that watcher's eye perceived, too plainly, that 
the pale characters of death were written upon his altered 
face. Yet he lingered through the whole of that long day un- 
til about 9 o'clock at night, when, as he lay there on that bed 
of suffering, worn out with unutterable pain, whilst his be- 
loved wife and faithful friends stood silent and motionless 
around him, waiting every moment to receive his last breath, 
he suddenly raised his head from his pillow, as by a super- 
natural effort:, and throwing his arms around the neck of 
her whom he had vowed to cherish till death should part 
them, he uttered those mighty and memorable words (yet 
glowing in all our hearts) — "Mercy is triumphant" — and 
poured out his spirit into the bosom of his Redeemer. 

Such is a faint, and, I am sensible, most imperfect sketch 
of the life of our departed friend. Yet imperfect as it has 
been, we may easily gather from it some of those prominent 
traits of his character, which it may now be proper for us 
to notice for a moment- — though it is difficult, I know, and 
almost injurious, to separate the colors of the bow, when it 
is obvious to every eye that each of them is not only modi- 
fied, but improved by its union with all the rest — still we 
may do it for a while, for the purpose of contemplation and 
reflection. And, in the first place, his leading characteristic 
was undoubtedly piety — including love to God and love to 
man, from a principle of living faith in the Lord Jesus Christ. 
And his piety was in a remarkable, and almost peculiar man- 
ner, of a practical kind. Indeed you might say that his 
very faith was practical. At least it certainly was not flighty, 
nor fanciful ; but calm, constant, and energetic ; always 
working; always working by love; always abounding ; and 
always growing — growing to the very last — till it rose into 
triumph — and triumphed into heaven. 

In this spirit, he was always aiming to do good. And he 
was not satisfied to do good on a small scale, or on his own 



22 



immediate spot. His charity, indeed, like that of the gos- 
pel, began at home; but it did not, like that of the world, 
end there. It was expansive and extensive. It embraced 
first the little ring of his own family and friends, and with a 
warmth of interest that was never exceeded ; but it soon 
expanded and extended its movements over a wider, and 
yet wider circle of his fellow-creatures, till it enclosed the 
state, the country, and the world, in one vast circumference 
fof benevolence, of which not self, but God, was the centre 
and the sun. 

I cannot stop here to point out the many private virtues 
which were only so many different emanations of the same 
substantial principle, and which so greatly endeared him to 
all who knew him. But there was one of them which I feel 
that my heart would not forgive me if I were not to men- 
tion — I mean his friendliness ; his disposition to enjoy and 
improve the communion and communications of kindred 
spirits. No man, indeed, I may say, — and I speak to some, 
I see, who will agree with me — no man upon earth ever had 
a stronger sense of all the duties, and all the pleasures, of a 
pure christian friendship, than he had — and therefore it is 
that our eyes are wet, and our hearts are sad, at the remem- 
brance of him now. But I must not dwell on this tender 
topic — I pass on to notice his more public virtues, which 
were open to all the world. 

He was a Patriot, worthy of the name. He loved his 
country, and his whole country, with all his heart, and with 
a warm and constant devotion to all her true interests, and 
real welfare. He loved Virginia, indeed — his own Virginia — 
with a first and filial affection. He loved her as the mighty 
mother of great and generous men, and fair and virtuous 
women, as the nursing parent whose bosom had fed his in- 
fancy, and warmed his manhood, and whose woods embraced 
his home, and his altar, and the houses and the graves of his 
kindred and friends, and all the dearest objects of his heart; and 



23 



he felt it undoubtedly his most delightful duty to Jive and to 
labor chiefly for her benefit. But he did not love her alone, 
and exclusively; nor with a narrow and partial spirit; but he 
loved New England also, and New York, and North-Caro- 
lina, and all the sister states — and had indeed a brother's 
feeling for every one of them. And he loved the Union — 
which he looked upon as the sun in the zodiac — or rather 
as "the blue sky that bendeth over all" — and he would have 
regarded the falling, or the shooting of a single star from its 
firmament, as the herald of the blackest night that ever 
dropped her curtain upon the glory of the world. 

He was of a truly catholic spirit. God gave him, as he 
gave Solomon, a largeness of heart as the sands on the sea- 
shore. He loved the Presbyterian church indeed, in which 
he had been born and bred, with a strong and zealous, but 
not blind or doting attachment. He loved it, with reason, 
as possessing, in his view, beyond every other branch of the 
christian church, a form of government and discipline, and a 
code of doctrine, harmonizing, in all essential features, with 
the genius of the gospel, and, at the same time, most hap- 
pily accordant with the genius of our government, and as 
admirably calculated to cherish and diffuse all those happy 
influences which are to preserve and perpetuate our free in- 
stitutions, and to bind all parts of our Union together in the 
adamantine chain of christian charity and love. But he was 
no sectarian, no bigot; but he embraced all christians of all 
denominations, truly such, with cordial fellowship; and, anti- 
cipating as he did that war to which we have alluded — "a 
war," as Mr Canning said, "not of arms, but of opinions" — 
a war between the hosts of Light on the one hand, and the 
hosts of Darkness on the other, he would most gladly have 
United all of them, without regard to their little differences 
and distinctions of uniform or equipment, around the sacred 
banner of the Cross, in which alone they could conquer and 
prevail. 



24 



With this spirit, he was, of course, a friend, or rather, I 
should say, a lover of religious liberty. He regarded it, 
indeed, as the very glory of Freedom herself — as the apple 
of her eye, and "the immediate jewel" of her heart. His 
idea of it, however, was rather larger and more definite than 
that vulgar notion of it which commonly prevails, and which 
satisfies so many amongst us; for he viewed it as consisting not 
merely in a separation of church and state, (which probably 
no man in his sober senses now thinks of ever bringing back 
together again,) and a full toleration of all sorts of religious 
opinions, without any pains, penalties, or disabilities from the 
civil government, for holding them; but also in what I appre- 
hend some clerical gentlemen are a little too apt to overlook, 
an entire exemption from all ecclesiastical domination. He 
was for keeping our clergy, as well as our rulers, in their 
proper places, and for maintaining the rights of the people 
in the church, as well as out of it — the sacred rights of reason 
and conscience — untrammelled alike by secular, and by 
sanctimonious imposition. For he thought, and justly, that 
the very worst of all tyranny is that which aims to lord it 
jure divino over the will of man which the Creator has 
made essentially free, and amenable only to his own law 
which is love— for what is it, in effect, but to transmute the 
free servant of God into a "chartered libertine" of man? 
It was with this view of religious liberty, that he contended 
earnestly and strenuously for it, against all that spirit of high- 
church arrogance and assumption which claims a monopoly 
of divine dispensation, and which he thought the most dan- 
gerous, because the most subtle, form in which usurpation 
could steal a march upon the minds of the unwary; and 
withstood all its allegations and pretensions, against all its act- 
ors and accomplices, with a firm and yet gentle spirit which 
we cannot sufficiently admire and applaud. 

As a Preacher of the Gospel, our friend stood if not the 
first, yet certainly in the first rank, in our state. He had 



25 



not, indeed, that fine and fascinating delivery which gives new 
force to reason, and new beauty even to truth. Nor had 
he that graceful action which speaks with a rival and yet 
conspiring charm to the eye, whilst the tongue is address- 
ing the ear, and so steals insensibly upon the heart. But 
he had qualities of a higher and more intellectual char- 
acter, and without which even those brilliant accomplish- 
ments would have been comparatively vain. He had 
judgment, strong and discriminating, to seize his subject 
by the right handle, and set it before you in its proper 
point of view. He had knowledge, ample and various, 
to inform, and learning, beyond that of almost any one of 
his cotemporaries, to enlighten you; and, what was of 
great importance, he was the master of it, and not its slave. 
He was, therefore, always instructive without being ever 
pedantic, and gave you the light of the lamp without its 
smell. At the same time, he was always strictly and purely 
evangelical, and, of course, remarkably practical. His style 
of preaching, indeed, naturally partook of the character of 
his personal religion, to which we have already adverted. — 
Accordingly, he could not, or would not separate Faith and 
Duty for a moment from each other, in his public ministra- 
tions, any more than in his private conduct. In his view, 
they were a lovely pair — like Adam and Eve — made to be 
united, and always best and happiest together, and the last 
indeed never safe by herself, and hardly able to live without 
her lord. In a word, he aimed to teach you the scriptures 
in their true meaning, in their full extent, and in their own 
spirit; and he testified, in fact, the gospel of the grace of 
God, like a witness sworn in court, in the court of heaven, 
"to speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the 
truth — so help him God !" 

For his style — he used great "plainness of speech;" for 
his object was not to amuse, but to teach; not to gain ad- 
miration for himself, but to win souls to his Redeemer. 
4 



26 



His speech, therefore, was not in the "enticing words 
of man's wisdom;" and no one indeed could have been 
more justly anxious than he was, that the faith of his 
hearers should not stand in the words of man, but in the 
grace of God. Yet, aware that the Holy Spirit works by 
means, he "sought out acceptable words," and arranged 
them, not solicitously, but carefully, and with proper taste. 
He was thus not only "apt to teach," but also skilful to per- 
suade; and his discourse was always clear and perspicuous* 
and often fervid and eloquent in no common degree. Over 
all, his manner if not graceful, was yet gracious, and gave 
you the just impression that he was deeply and thoroughly 
sincere. He was thus, not exactly an accomplished speaker, 
but a something infinitely better, an able, faithful, and suc- 
cessful preacher of the gospel of Christ. 

As a teacher of religion, and more especially as a Pro- 
fessor of Christian Theology in the Seminary, he was above 
all praise. His object here was to teach the scriptures 
from themselves, and for their author. He used the Bible, 
accordingly, for his constant text-book, and all other books 
only as helps and lights, and not as standards and authorities. 
His method of teaching, moreover, was almost wholly in- 
ductive — leading his students, by a copious collection and 
comparison of passages, to ascertain the full resulting and re- 
dounding truth. In his lectures, particularly, which were 
calculated to guide them rather than to display himself, he 
sketched, as it were, with a master's hand, a map of the 
whole world of Theology, in which he designated all the 
ports and havens of faith and peace, and, at the same time, 
pointed out all the rocks and shoals of heresy and infidelity, 
on which misguided men have made shipwreck of their souls 
from the foundation of the world. For the rest, he was sa- 
tisfied to exhibit the doctrines of the scriptures as they ap- 
pear in the sacred oracles themselves, and wisely rejected all 
those absurd neologisms which some doctors would pass off 



27 



upon us for new truths, but which he thought were only errors 
revived — or not exactly revived perhaps; but only galvanized 
' a little, to amuse and amaze the vulgar with all those frightful 
and fantastical distortions which are at best but a sad mock- 
ery of life, and almost equally alarming and ridiculous. 

But whilst I am thus speaking of his instructions in the 
Seminary, I cannot but remember that there was one trait 
in his character which some of you, I am sure, would not 
easily pardon me if 1 were to omit — and it was a trait as 
striking as it was engaging — I mean his paternal disposition. 
This indeed was so apparent in him, that it seemed as if 
Divine Providence had given him no children of his own, 
on purpose that he might be more free and ready to adopt 
all the generous youth of our land. It is certain, at least, 
that his heart naturally and spontaneously attached itself 
to all such of them as were brought within his reach. And 
to those of the Seminary particularly, his own sons in the 
faith, he obviously felt that he was a father indeed; and it 
was truly a delightful spectacle to see how he gathered 
them about him with even more than a father's, with all a 
mother's tenderness, and (to use the homely but expressive 
figure of the scriptures, which, sacred as it is in its asso- 
ciation, I think I may venture to apply to him.) as a hen 
gathereth her chickens under her wings — whilst they, on 
their part, more dutiful and more affectionate than those of 
Jerusalem, felt themselves safe and happy under his care. 

With such virtues and such talents, we cannot wonder for 
a moment that our friend should have been, as he certainly 
was beyond almost any individual whom we have ever known, 
eminently and extensively useful in his course. It is not pos- 
sible indeed, we conceive, for us of this generation fully to 
estimate all his services in so many ways, and for so many 
years; but we can easily see that as a teacher, as a minister 
of the gospel, and still more perhaps as an able and ready 
writer, and, in this last character especially, the enlightened 



28 



and persevering advocate of true Christianity — of public 
morals — of general education — of religious liberty — and of 
all the sacred movements of the age — but, above all, as the 
founder of the Union Theological Seminary, in which he 
has made a liberal provision for the supply of all our South- 
ern churches with a long succession of able and faithful 
preachers of the gospel, for ages to come — he has conferred 
an amount of benefit upon our state and country, which we 
can only acknowledge and improve, and leave posterity 
after us to inherit and enjoy. 

[. And now, friends of the deceased, may I not justly call 
upon you all to mourn for such a man ? But no — I will not 
do it. You have already mourned enough for him — or rather 
for yourselves — for the loss which the church, and the 
Seminary, and the state, and our whole country, have sus- 
tained in his death. — And for my part at least, after the 
time which has been allowed for reflection, I can see nothing 
to mourn for on his account. He died indeed too soon for 
us; but not for himself. He had lived long enough for all the 
great objects of his life. He had lived long enough, as we 
may well believe, to secure his own eternal salvation, and 
to promote the salvation of hundreds and thousands of his 
fellow-creatures, by his own blessed ministry, and by the 
ministry of others whom he had provided the means to send 
forth in the same service to the end of time. He had lived 
long enough, more particularly, to see that institution to which 
he had devoted the last years of his life, and the last labors 
of his mind, established on a sure and solid foundation, and 
placed in a state in which he might safely leave it to the care 
of others to finish and maintain it after he was gone. He 
had seen it, moreover, according to his earnest wish, stamped 
as it were with the impress of his own character — and con- 
secrated by the seal of God. For he had seen a man, a 
servant of the Most High, whom we might almost call the 
Reviver, from his happy connection with so many revivals, 



29 



become here also the honored instrument of calling down a 
shower of grace upon the garden which he had planted, and 
upon all the surrounding fields. He had seen, also, another 
man of God come to visit him, and to die in his house, as if 
on purpose to bequeath the memory of a lovely specimen of 
gentle virtue, and patient meekness, to his institution; and he 
had seen a noble youth, his own pupil, the only son of his 
mother and she a widow, stricken down in all the blooming 
promise of opening manhood, to become as it were his fore- 
runner to the upper world that was waiting to receive him. 
In a word, he had seen the first-fruits of the great travail of 
his heart, and was satisfied. And what then remained for 
him — what more had he to do upon earth — but to gather up 
Ms feet and die ? 

And what a death was granted to him by the favor of his 
Master ! How happy, and how honorable ! How well cal- 
culated to illustrate, not only his own character, but that of 
religion itself! It was indeed an abundant entrance — a tri- 
umphant entry — into the joy of his Lord. And you may 
compare it, if you please, for a moment, with the very finest 
worldly death on record, (which indeed it resembles,) and 
you will find that it does not lose, but rather gains by the com- 
parison. They tell us, you remember, that w T hen the gallant 
Wolfe had marshalled his forces, on those heights of Abra- 
ham, against the enemies of his royal master, and had led 
them on to the charge himself, and mortally wounded, retired, 
supported by a soldier, to the rear of his troops — as he lay 
there bleeding, and leaning his drooping head upon the shoul- 
der of a brother-officer, he heard a shout — and the officer ex- 
claimed, "see how they run !" — and, raising his head for an 
instant, he eagerly inquired, "who run?" the answer was, "the 
enemy." "Then," said he, "God be praised, I shall die 
happy" — and expired. It was a noble death ! He had not 
lived, indeed, to reap all the fruits of the splendid victory 
svhich his counsel and valor had won; but he knew that his 



30 



friends and fellow-soldiers would gather them in after his 
departure; and, in that "agony of his fame," he fell covered 
and crowned with the approbation and applause of his coun- 
try, and of the world. It was indeed a noble death, and 
worthy of all the admiration which it has received. Yet I 
do not hesitate to say, that the death of our friend — when 
viewed in its proper light, and with all its associations — was 
still more striking and sublime. He, too, had fought a good 
fight. He had marshalled his forces on yonder height against 
the enemies of Zion. He had led the first conspicuous 
charges himself. He had ensured success. And now, draw- 
ing near his end, he saw in vision at least his young troops 
following up his advantages, and pursuing the fugitives bro- 
ken before their ardor, and scattered about on every side; 
and, in that triumph of mercy, he burst the bands of life, and 
the bars of death, and ascended at once as a conqueror, 
amidst the acclamations of applauding angels, into the very 
presence of his Captain and his King ! This was a glorious 
death; and infinitely better, and even brighter than the other. 
Yes — Wolfe died like a hero; but Rice like a man of God. 

Nor was there any thing (or hardly any thing) in the cir- 
cumstances attending his departure, that ought to awaken our 
regret. He died indeed in poverty ; but he had spent his 
little fortune nobly in the service of his Master, and sent it 
all away before him to that country to which he was going ; 
and though he may, and must, have felt a natural pang at the 
thought of leaving her to whom "he felt bound," as he said, 
"by all the strongest ties that can bind man to woman," in a 
situation in which she might feel some diminution of her 
worldly comforts, yet he knew that he might calmly leave 
her to the generosity — rather the justice — of her christian 
relatives and friends, who would love her for his sake as 
well as her own, and would suffer her to lack no solace which 
their kindness could supply; and, above all, he knew that he 
might safely trust her to the guardianship of that Almighty 



31 



Being whom she had so long served with him as his true 
help-mate in the bonds of the gospel, and who would not 
forget her labors of love, nor his own gracious promise, but 
would never leave her nor forsake her. For the rest, "it 
was necessar" for him," as he said, "to die poor." It was 
necessary for him — for his own honor, and the honor of 
Christianity — to give this last proof of his elevation above all 
sordid motives, and to silence effectually those cruel tongues 
which had so often wounded his sensibility by doubting his 
disinterestedness — only because, unhappily for them, they 
could find nothing like it in their own breasts. 

So all was as it should have been. And now, after a life 
spent in the service of God and man, "he sleeps well." 
And there, in that small enclosure at Willington, and sur- 
rounded still, as you may see, by friends and pupils, his flesh 
rests in hope; and the sun, as he retires to his own nightly 
rest, pauses to shed his last gentle rays upon the green sod 
that covers his mortal bed. There Love and Friendship 
meet, and mingle their tears together — but not for him — they 
know that he is happy — but for themselves, now widowed 
and orphaned by his loss. Calumny has died of her own 
venom; and Envy, whose worm never dies, turns away from 
his sacred corse, and feeds only upon herself. And what if 
no monument yet marks the spot where his relics repose, — he 
needs none. He has raised his own monument, whiter than 
marble, and stronger than brass. Do you ask me where it 
is ? Look around you. Look every where; but look espe- 
cially at that seminary, which he built as a mansion for God, 
but which shall also be a monument to his memory while the 
sun and the moon shall endure. In the mean time, his spirit 
has soared away to the Paradise of the saints; and there 
with those innumerable spirits beneath the altar, and some 
whom he knew and loved upon earth, with Lacy, with Lyle, 
and with Hoge, he waits with joyful assurance for the coming 
of that brighter day of the manifestation of the sons of 



32 



God, when his body also shall be raised in incorruption, and 
put on the robes of immortality, and participate in the rap- 
tures of his eternal bliss. Yes — all has heen ordered well 
for him, and there is nothing, as it appears to me, absolutely 
nothing, that we ought to wish for a moment to have been 
otherwise; and I will not, therefore, I say again, ask you to 
mourn for him — but I will only ask you to remember him. 

Gentlemen of the Society, remember him who was the 
honored President, the leading member, and the brightest 
ornament of our association — the morning star of our host, 
now gone away from our eyes, but not from our hearts, and 
lost, not in darkness, but in overflowing light. 

Students of Hampden Sydney, remember him who was 
your guardian and your guide. Remember how, in the very 
spring-time of his youth, he rejected all the solicitations and 
allurements of worldly Pleasure, and made the noble choice 
of Hercules — or rather the noble choice of Solomon — of 
heavenly Wisdom for his bride. Remember with what ardor, 
and what constancy, he pursued, through his whole course, 
all useful and generous studies, and consecrated all his pow- 
ers, and all his acquirements, to the glory of God, and the 
benefit of mankind. See in all his conduct, as in a pure 
stream, the reflected grace and beauty of christian character; 
and, admiring what you see, resolve to be what you admire. 
So shall you become blessings of society, pillars in the state, 
and pillars in the Church, forever. 

Students of the Union Seminary, shall I ask you to re- 
member? — can you ever forget? — your father and your 
friend. You have seen him carried up into Heaven, like 
Elijah, before your eyes; and every one of you perhaps 
exclaimed, with young Elisha, my father ! my father ! the 
chariot of Israel, and the horsemen thereof! But who of 
you has caught his mantle as it fell ? Oh, that it may have 
fallen — undivided, like his Master's, — upon you all! Oh!' 
that a double portion of his spirit may indeed rest upon you 



33 



ali, and upon all your successors hereafter ! So shall you 
go forth from those walls to spread the savor of the ever- 
lasting gospel, in all its power and all its sweetness, 
throughout the state, and the country, and the world. 

Friends of the deceased, fathers, brothers, and all who 
hear my voice, remember him who was your companion 
and fellow-laborer in the field; with whom you went up to 
the house of God; from whose lips you heard the word of 
life; but whom you shall now see and hear no more on 
earth. Remember his holy life, and happy death; and 
follow him as he followed his Redeemer. So shall your 
lives be useful and honorable, your deaths peaceful, and 
perhaps triumphant; and, beyond the grave, you shall be 
with him in Paradise; and, in the morning of the resurrec- 
tion, you shall s,tand with him again there on the right hand 
of Jesus Christ, and receive the crown of life which the 
Lord, the righteous Judge, shall give at that day — to Paul 
• — and to Rice — and not to them only — but to all them also 
who love his appearing. Amen ! 



H 113 8 2 ** 




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